Not A Problem
by Suicidal-Astronaut
Summary: It's not a problem to want to be thin. It's not a problem to want to be perfect. It's not a problem. - A oneshot about Dale's anorexia/bulimia.


**Hi, new story, based around my favorite character, who in my opinion is severely underrated by the world – I mean he's amazing. Anyway, Dale Jackson (Finlay Macmillan) is my new found love!**

**Sorry, Emma isn't real, but I couldn't really think of anyone other than Lisa and Carrie and I'm not using them! (you'll see why)**

**Disclaimer – Do I own Waterloo Road? Maybe. Maybe not. Ooooh the suspense is killing me…. ***

It's not a problem, he tells himself, scraping the mayo off his sandwich and trying not to recoil. "Gone off the texture," he tells Lenny. "Reminds me too much of – "

"Yeah," Lenny says, going slightly green. "I know far too much about your masturbatory habits as it is, actually. I understand," and he shoves a handful of chips in his mouth. Dale watches, fascinated and nauseated at the same time. Lenny looks at the untouched chips on Dale's plate. "You not eating those?"

"Oh," Dale says, as if he hadn't thought about it, as if he hadn't stuffed half the portion in the pockets of his jeans as soon as Lenny had been distracted by the sight of Carrie passing by. He has never been more grateful for misogynistic objectification, he thinks, and then he feels bad.

Lenny shovels another lorry load of chips into his mouth, and the bell rings.

In biology he watches the projector cord swinging in the breeze from the fan, and in maths he watches Emma's hair as she turns her head, chatting with two almost-as-perfect friends. He marvels at the thought of one day being as thin as she is. It's not a problem, though.

After school he runs around the lacrosse pitch with Lenny, as if he had any hope of keeping up. Lenny grins at him and runs even faster, legs blurring. Dale's legs are burning, and so are his lungs. So is his stomach, so he runs another three laps until his vision starts to fade, and he hurls himself down next to Carrie.

He's broken the rules, though. He was meant to run today, properly, not just chase Lenny in circles. He was meant to refuse every morsel like Persephone in the underworld but the hell is here.

Hell is the lard across his thighs and the chip-fat of his arms, wobbling with every movement. Hell is when he was fourteen and chubby, filling the emptiness inside himself with cakes and pies and endless chocolate bars, when he used to sneak to the shop after school and stuff himself with Pringles, cookies, sweets. Snowball pudding on Christmas day with unnecessary extra cream, of course he wanted it all!

Entire packets of cheese gone in a day. Eating and eating and eating as if it would bring his mother back to life, as if his father would smile at the sight of his son gorging on every additive available in the world.

"You okay?" Lenny asks, waving a hand in front of his face. "You've gone all spacey on us," and Dale blinks. He has dug his fingers so deeply into the flesh of his thigh that when he stretches his fingers he sees crescent moons from his nails, red as blood. They _are_ bleeding, he realizes, and pulls his shorts down slightly.

"I'm good," he says, and grins. "Just – thinking," he adds, and – remarkably – they believe him.

Once back to the school house, Dale rushes to his room.

Upstairs, Dale slips (waddles) into his tracksuit bottoms and jogs in his room on the spot until he sweats, until his heart is bursting, and then he jogs a little more. It's not a problem, though.

The next morning is cold. He is awake before his alarm, pinching at the fat he can feel on his stomach. His stomach is the worst part of him, he decides, and rolls out of bed to examine himself in the mirror. He is definitely fatter than yesterday, but he steps on the scales, just in case. They lie to him. They always lie, but between the mirror and the scales he cannot decide who is lying more. He tries to fit the thumb and forefinger of one hand around his upper arm; there are about two inches to go.

All of the other cyclist's arms are huge. Easily the size of Dale's thigh, and much more muscular; there can't be an ounce of fat on them. Dale tries to ignore the growling in his stomach, and leaves for school without saying goodbye to Maggie; this plagues him all day. Not only is he fat, but he is ungrateful too.

To punish him, the universe sends Justin in to school in a t shirt tight enough to show off every rippling muscle in his stomach. Want pools in Dale's stomach, want and stomach acid, and then he is trying to throw up in the bathroom.

Throwing up burns as it always has done, but recently Dale has been doing it a little more, and he is getting good at it; good at hiding it too. Running the tap is a well-known secret but Dale has taken to hiding under the bleachers and throwing up in a plastic bag. This sounds disgusting and is disgusting but it's necessary if he ever wants to be anywhere near perfect. He also drinks a (diet) soda before he does it, so that he can puke with more ease, and he hates himself every time.

The thing is that Dale never knew losing weight was this _easy_. He understands for the first time the anguished girls in the health class videos gripping their thighs after eating a piece of lettuce, although for him the reality is very different. _Failure, _his mind whispers, but he wipes his mouth and emerges from the stall as if nothing has happened. Nothing has happened, really. He just threw up; maybe there's a bug going round. This is what he tells Lenny, when asks about his streaming eyes.

It's really, really not a problem.

***To clarify, I don't own Waterloo Road. However, I do own a creative mind, which at times is more than can be said for the ACTUAL owners of Waterloo Road.**

**WE NEED NEW STORYLINES (except Dale's because he'll always be perfect) xx**

**Furthermore, I really hope you liked it, please review and goodnight.****J**

P.S. Does anyone like stereo kicks? I think they're awesome. (I don't even watch x factor) :/


End file.
